Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me,
For hastily putting a few questions down,
To which answers from you all my wishes will crown;
For you know I’m so fond of the land of Corinne
That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within,
And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily,
Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy;
From your shipmate John Evelyn’s amusing old tour,
To Forsyth’s one volume, and Eustace’s four,
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances